


Small-a Apocalypse: A Never-Ending Story

by Bouzingo



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: F/F, Genderqueer Character, Miskatonic University, Rule 63, tenuously connected, there's a story i swear, this is going to be epic length so i'd hop on now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 15,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bouzingo/pseuds/Bouzingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After months of infatuation, Carla and Cecile are finally in love. But they live in a strange place that is much bigger and far more dangerous than Carla thought. And apparently, that world plus a few others have a bone to pick with Cecile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter Allergies

The morning is surprisingly cool when Carla wakes up. She looks outside, and finds that it is, in fact, snowing. Cecile, still sleeping, has wrapped herself up in all the blankets and is holding onto Carla for extra warmth. Carla disentangles herself from Cecile’s arms, and wonders if she should risk getting out of bed to find another comforter so Cecile doesn’t freeze. Her decision is made easier when Cecile begins to shiver.

She gets a thick handmade quilt from the linen closet, and lies back down on the bed, throwing the blanket over the two of them. Cecile wakes up a little bit, and her eyes are an alarming shade of bloodshot.

“Is it _snowing?_ ” she whispers, and looks outside. “Oh, no.”

“It’s just frozen water,” Carla says gently, thinking that maybe Cecile’s never seen snow before, only heard fearful tales of it. “We get it all the time in Maryland.”

“Maryland sounds like an awful place,” Cecile says, quite seriously, and sneezes. It is not an endearing, little sneeze. It is the sneeze of hay fever and misery. “I have a snow allergy, Carla. Proximity alone makes me a runny mess.”

“You can’t be allergic to snow,” Carla reasons, but Cecile sneezes again, and her heart melts. “Where do you keep your Benadryl?”

“Jewelry box,” Cecile says. Her voice is getting raspier with each passing minute, “with all my other pharmaceuticals. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Ceec,” Carla says, “I’m going to get your allergy medication and some of your gingerbread tea, and then I’m going to call the lab. I'll take a day.”

“Gingerbread tea,” Cecile hums contentedly, and bunches the quilt around her shoulders. Carla comes back in a few minutes with the Benadryl and the tea, and Cecile takes both gratefully.

“It doesn’t get any worse than this, does it?” Carla asks. She can’t imagine a more violent allergic reaction to snow, but this is Night Vale, and Cecile’s reaction is already impossible.

Cecile shakes her head and drinks her tea.

“I only need my Epipen for hellfire days,” she says. “And there hasn’t been one of those in years.”

“Hellfire days,” Carla says, her tone totally neutral because of course, there would be days with hellfire in them, even if they are exceedingly rare.

“You must get those all the time in _Maryland_ ,” Cecile says, “You’re so stoic about it, Carla, but you can tell me how awful it is there.”

“It’s not as bad as you think,” Carla says, and slips back into bed with Cecile, who leans into her and sips more tea.

“So brave,” Cecile grins, and blinks hard. “I’m tired. Benadryl knocks me right out.”

“Finish your tea,” Carla says, picking up some work and putting on her reading glasses. “And then go back to sleep.”

“You don’t have to stay here. I know that you have work to do. Science work,” Cecile murmurs.

“I thought I needed to learn how to put things beside science first,” Carla says with a long-suffering smile, and sneaks an arm around Cecile’s shoulders. Cecile blushes. “I don’t mind taking a day, chica.”

“It is beautiful,” Cecile says, staring at the snow outside. “I wish it didn’t make me sick.”

“The snow won’t last too long, not in the heat,” Carla says, and she hopes that’s reassuring. “It’s not even accumulating, it’s melting so fast.”

But Cecile is already sleeping, her head drooping onto her chest. Carla smiles, and takes the cup of tea from her limp fingers. Then she carefully lays Cecile down and tucks her in; while Cecile has the gift of falling asleep in whatever position she happens to be in, it can’t be comfortable sleeping while sitting up.

“So cute,” someone whispers from their hiding spot near the window, but Carla’s learned to ignore the Sheriff’s Secret Police. She redoubles her efforts to do a little bit of work.

Cecile wakes up in the early afternoon. It stopped snowing a while ago, but her eyes still look a bit irritated and she’s clearly groggy.

“Hey there. Welcome back to the living,” Carla smiles. Cecile blinks a couple of times and stretches. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel a bit better,” she says. Her voice is still raspy. “I should be better when it’s time for my show.”

“You’re still going?” Carla asks, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you have sick leave?”

“Yes, but I’m saving that for when I need it,” Cecile says in a tone which tells Carla she should know this already. “What if I get throat spiders? I’d need every day of my leave to get over that, or else I’d have to cut into my vacation time.”

“How much sick leave do you have?”

“Over ten years at the station, I’ve accumulated five months!” Cecile says proudly. “Plus six months of vacation. And I haven’t used any of it.”

Carla can’t help but smile.

“And I’m supposed to be the workaholic?” she teases. Cecile leans into Carla

“I guess I am a little hypocritical on that note,” she says. “Maybe we could go on vacation. Luftnarp is lovely in the fall.”

“Leave Night Vale?” Carla says. “Can we even do that?”

Cecile laughs, and starts getting out of bed.

“Of course we can. After the right paperwork and government-mandated inoculations, of course. I’m taking a shower,” she adds, pulling off her sleeping shirt (Miskatonic University. Carla’s never heard of it, but maybe that’s a good thing).

She’s not going to ask Carla to join her. Shower sex was really difficult and uncomfortable when they tried it the last time, if also downright hilarious. Besides, Cecile sings when she’s alone in the shower, and Carla likes to listen. She knows if this was any other town, Cecile could have gone places with that voice. Rich, trained, and almost-classical, her voice creeps under the washroom door with the shower steam and is almost as tangible. Her singing voice literally has a colour, and it’s a dark, almost greenish-blue.

Carla doesn’t recall having synesthesia before coming to Night Vale, but with Cecile it’s a common occurrence. She wonders if everyone here experiences it to some degree. Selfishly, Carla hopes it’s just her who gets to see Cecile’s pastel day-to-day chatter, her burgundy declarations of love; which are whispered so close they spread and dissipate on Carla’s skin.

Cecile comes out refreshed and wearing nothing but a towel and her fuzzy slippers. She’s dried and brushed her hair, and it’s tumbling over her shoulders.

“Can you do my hair?” she asks shyly, sitting at her dresser. Carla smiles and sits behind, taking the brush that’s giving to her. Cecile prefers her hair in two plaits down her back and tied off with large wooden beads of her own carving.

Growing up with a brother and short hair was enough to make sure Carla never learned to braid anyone’s hair in her childhood, but since she came to Night Vale she’s become a bona fide expert. Most of her improvement in this field comes from the fact that Cecile wears her hair however Carla styles it, probably believing that she can achieve the perfection she perceives in Carla’s by osmosis. That’s incentive enough to have made Carla collect data, by way of endless Wiki-Hows and one eventful Skype call with a colleague’s little girl, who wants to be an aesthetician.

“Done,” she says, with one final twist of Cecile’s hair. Then she takes a picture of Cecile with her iPhone, so she can see. There are no mirrors in this house. “Does that look good?”

“Oh Carla,” Cecile says, “It always looks better when you do it.”

She turns to look at her with such open adoration that Carla is shocked by how naked the emotion is, and how it is mirrored in her own eyes.

“If you feel bad again, you come right home. And take your medicine with you to the station,” she mutters. “And um… have another tea. With honey. Or something.”

“You’re such a worrier,” Cecile smiles, and gets up to go get clothes. “But I love you.”

“I love you too,” Carla says, and she knows that it’s the right time to start saying those three words when they feel like they’ve been in common usage for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I've written literally fucktons of Rule 63 Cecilos, so I thought I'd fashion it into an epic-length story. My facecasts for Cecile and Carla are Q'Orianka Kilcher and Tracie Thoms. If anyone wants to see anything with these two idiots, please drop a line!
> 
> Also, this first chapter is actually more of an amuse-bouche, as the plot-relevant stuff comes later. MUCH LATER.


	2. Stargazing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecile and Carla watch the stars misbehave. The author loses her nerve and writes a fade-to-black love scene.

They’re lying on the hill together, watching the stars misbehave. Cecile’s head rests on Carla’s chest while she gestures vaguely at the void with a blissed out smile on her face, and Carla has her hands in the other girl’s long and unbound hair. One year ago, she couldn’t have thought about such complete happiness, especially not in Night Vale. But now, Carla is totally at peace, even though she could die at any moment. Maybe it’s trauma or dissociation; she thinks it might be love.

“You know, where I come from the stars stay fairly still,” Carla says, watching Sagittarius gallop out of their plane of vision. “I think I like this better.”

She doesn’t mention the sleepless nights spent trying to assure herself that there is some kind of explanation for the galaxies suddenly disobeying every known law of physics, but it sort of goes without saying.

“When I was a kid, I learned all sorts of stories like this,” Cecile smiles, “just sitting out in the field and watching the sky. Especially when all the good books were banned and the libraries got…”

The full-body shudder that accompanies her broken off statement is enough for Carla to tighten the hold around her waist.

“My mom told me all the stories about her gods, and when she passed, I told them to myself enough that I could make the stories in the stars.”

“You’ve never told me about your mom,” Carla says. Cecile’s smile fades and she shakes her head.

“No. I don’t remember much about her,” she admits. “She died when I was very young.”

“Sorry,” Carla says quietly. She should have guessed Cecile was at least partially orphaned; the mortality rate is horrifyingly high in Night Vale. But for some reason, she can only think of a little old woman, hair white to Cecile’s black, sitting out on a porch with sweet iced tea. “It sounds like she was lovely.”

“She was,” Cecile says and stands up. “Oh, I could just fall asleep out here! But that is one sure way to get killed by the things that prey on our dreams, so we should get home where the protective seals are.”

“Are you inviting me to your place?” Carla says, holding out a hand to get pulled up. Even in the dark, she can see the radio host blush, and she laughs. They both spare another look up at the stars, and then run to Cecile’s little house. Breathless, and still giggling like a girl twenty years younger, Carla kisses Cecile, who is fumbling with her keys.

“I love you,” she says as she pulls away, and Cecile’s eyes widen. “I’ve been collecting and quantifying data, and I think I can confirm that I adore everything about you.”

“Oh, surely not everything,” Cecile says, and it’s amazing how poised she can be even when she’s self-deffacing, “though far be it for me to try and disprove your hypothesis.”

And she kisses Carla back, opening the door behind them. Neither one of them quite manage to turn on the lights as they stumble in, so there’s a bit more crashing into furniture and laughing like damn fools then there ought to be. The place probably looks good and burgled by the time they make it to the bedroom. Carla’s lab coat is gone and her shirt is only half-on.

“A bit inequitable, huh?” she breathes, and Cecile nods, pulls her dress off and over her head. Having lived in Night Vale her entire life, she doesn’t believe in brassieres and has very little faith in lingerie in general. She does, however, favour thigh-high stockings held up by garters. Carla stares -- Cecile is stunning, tattoos and scars and all -- and then belatedly starts fumbling with her skirt. Cecile tries to help, though the way she fumbles at Carla’s bra is more a bemused gesture of support than anything.

“You know what,” Cecile says, knitting her brow, “I’ll just leave that to you.”

Carla doesn’t even bother, just draws in her girlfriend for another kiss, pushing Cecile’s glasses up so they perch on her forehead. Cecile blinks and her hands go for Carla’s hair, tangling in her curls and lingering at the nape of her neck.

“I love you too. I’ve always loved you,” she whispers when they break. Carla is a scientist; she knows that the heart isn’t the seat of emotion. But she swears it’s what sends the huge rush of warmth and joy through her veins anyway. And then Cecile kisses Carla again, hands around her waist, and they fall into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter today. Sorry about the end- I know it looks like there should be porn there. (the porn comes laaater)


	3. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecile and Carla are so domestic it hurts. Cecile's history is written on her skin like an epic.

Cecile’s skin is a palimpsest of scars and tattoos, never-changing but constantly accumulating. Carla traces over these scars when they’re together, from the defensive scars stretched white on Cecile’s palms, to the whip-thin burn marks that encircle her torso, incorporated into a tattoo of a phoenix.

“Carla,” Cecile says, and turns over in bed to face Carla, who withdraws her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be,” Cecile smiles, “it feels good.”

“How did you get these?”

Cecile generally wears her scars like badges of honour. It seems the bulk of them were gained during her internship at the radio, and she usually loves to relate those stories. With these burns though, she seems a little bit more hesitant.

“There was some kind of small-a apocalypse back in college,” Cecile frowns with the somewhat distant memory, “It interrupted my 8:30 in art history, and I think it opened a new dimension. So, in the spirit of investigative journalism, and a burning desire to miss art history, I entered into that hellish portal and came back with these.”

Carla is slightly horrified, but things that are disturbing to her are sort of mundane for Cecile, so she tries to school her expression.

“Did it hurt?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Cecile says casually, and Carla can hear no artifice in her tone. “Mostly, I remember time stretching out like a piece of saltwater taffy, until I was sure years had passed. Then the portal opened again and in our reality it had been like, five, or maybe six seconds? Anyway when I got out I was finally legal to drink and I got _hammered_ that night.”

“It sounds like that happens to you a lot,” Carla says, and quickly adds, “the getting sucked into dimensions and staying there for years but coming back in no time at all thing, I mean.”

“I’m seeing it now that you point it out,” Cecile says thoughtfully. “I suppose it does happen more often than it ought. But that comes with the hazards of being a journalist!”

_But don’t you ever get scared?_ Carla thinks, _aren’t you ever scared that one day you’ll get stuck and you won’t come back and you’ll leave me alone?_

“I always come back,” Cecile says, and Carla wonders (not for the first time) if Cecile can read minds. “And I have never had a desire to remain. Everything I love is here.”

She kisses Carla’s cheek, and gets up from the(ir) bed.

“I’m making breakfast this morning,” she says. “I thought I saw this recipe for huevos rancheros that doesn’t require supervision from the fire department.”

“Oh lay off,” Carla grins. “It’s not my fault you can’t handle a modicum of spice.”

“I nearly died!” Cecile says, violently pulling on some kind of a batik plaited dress, “and all you did was laugh.”

“It was funny,” Carla shrugs, and rolls out of bed. Unlike Cecile, she always wears pajamas, even in the Night Vale heat. “You can’t stay mad at me forever, chica.”

“…No, I can’t,” Cecile admits, “but I tried.”

They amble leisurely down to the kitchen (Carla never used to indulge in lazy mornings) and Carla sits at the table while Cecile goes into the kitchen and starts chanting an Old Recipe in a voice deeper than her radio voice. After a few minutes of the windowpanes rattling and Carla trying to suppress the rolling doom that sits in her chest like a dead weight, Cecile returns with two picture-perfect plates of huevos rancheros. A tattoo that rings her right wrist is glowing sickly green.

“Looks great, hon,” Carla says, and Cecile beams, leaving quickly to fetch the orange juice. They are good eggs, if predictably lacking spice. Cecile chatters with animated gestures, and in doing so forgets to actually transfer breakfast from her plate to her mouth. Carla drags her chair over to Cecile’s side of the small circular table.

“Stop forgetting to eat, you,” she says fondly.

“Wha…? Oh yeah,” Cecile says with a blush, and spears some eggs onto her fork. It doesn’t take her too long to forget about her food again. Carla sighs internally and makes a note to put Cecile’s neglected breakfast in a Tupperware before leaving.

“I’m going to get groceries before work. Do you need anything?” Cecile asks.

“I’m out of conditioner,” Carla says, and grins wickedly at Cecile’s horrified gasp. “I think I’ll be okay. Except, could you just get white milk this time? Even just one of those small cartons. I’m still not a fan of the orange kind.”

“If they have any, I’ll remember to pick it up,” Cecile says. A tattooed grocery list has already formulated on her forearm, in neat handwriting. Carla has long ago given up trying to figure out how some of Cecile’s tattoos interact with the world at large, and instead appreciates how much easier a note-taking tattoo makes things in a city without writing utensils. “What’s your day look like?”

“My team says that there’s a rolling meadow near the outskirts that definitely wasn’t there yesterday,” Carla says, amazed at how blasé her tone is, “So it looks like it’ll be mostly fieldwork and collecting samples today. I’ll text you if it starts threatening the town.”

“Well be careful,” Cecile says, and kisses Carla. “Remember that nature’s endgame is revenge; the death of mankind.”

“Cecile, it’s just a fairly verdant meadow with wildflowers here and there,” Carla says, though uncertainty begins to make itself known in the back of her mind. “I don’t think flowers can plot revenge.”

“Oh, you’d eat your words if you knew about The Old Greenhouse. We were so, SO wrong about The Old Greenhouse,” Cecile says, dead serious, then giggles. “Okay, bye!”

“Bye,” Carla says. It’s been months, but she’s still a bit nonplussed by Cecile’s tendency towards changing subjects with all the subtlety of a train rumbling across a juncture. And the thing is, when Cecile mentions something sinister in passing, nine times out of ten it usually comes back to bite Carla in the ass.

_Still_ , she thinks as she dresses for the day, _at least I get a warning some days._


	4. The Rolling Meadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecile goes to work and greets a new intern. The Rolling Meadows really -were- quite menacing. OC is introduced in this chapter; I think ze's cool.

The new intern is boiling water as Cecile gets to the green room of the radio station. A baseball bat smeared with the black bodily fluids reminiscent of Station Management’s leans against the wall by said intern.

“Hello!” Cecile says with a bright smile, mentally going down the list of applicants. “You’re… RJ, right?”

“Yeah,” RJ says, looking up. Ze’s got a glittery eye patch and zir fluorescent blue hair is styled into a pompadour. “I asked Reception when my orientation is, but apparently there isn’t one?”

“Well, Reception is right about that!” Cecile says, glancing back at the baseball bat. She likes the new intern; most do not approach Reception at all, opting to run for a broom closet and curl up into fetal position instead. “At Night Vale Community Radio, we learn on the job! Bit of a change from boring old school, right?”

“Don’t try to be hip with me, Prairie Companion,” RJ sighs, “Can I smoke in here?”

“You don’t look like you’re 19 to me,” Cecile says, “And unless you opted to start secondary school later in life, you’ve got maybe three more years to go. How about a big cup of tea instead? It’s like being hugged from the inside. Except that being hugged from the inside is actually horrifying and strangely cold, not warm and rainbowish.”

“Wow. Just wow,” RJ says, but does not object as Cecile pours water onto two bags of chai. Cecile sits down, taking in the steam from her mug (‘World’s Greatest Radio Host’, a gift from Dana) with a happy sigh.

“No doubt you are a bit fearful,” she says after a moment. “The letter informing you of your internship came in a little purple envelope that needed no actual markings to convey its full meaning. Maybe your parents or guardians cried and hugged you as though for the last time before the unmarked van pulled out front and took you away. But I have to say this- no matter what the common perception is, internship at NVCR is not a death sentence.”

“Oh yeah? What interns are still alive?” RJ asks, crooking a pierced eyebrow at Cecile.

“Well, there’s Paolo, and kind of Dana, I hope, it’s been left ambiguous, and then there’s little old me!” Cecile grins, and produces cookies from the pocket dimension near the kettle. “Have an Oreo.”

“You were an intern?” RJ says, taking a couple of cookies.

“I sure was. I got in bad trouble when I came back from college, but luckily they decided to convert my twenty years of hard labour to an internship here. It was a different time. I haven’t had a convicted felon come to the station in ages,” Cecile says.

“You’re shitting me. What did you do?”

RJ is gaping, and Cecile can see zir bejeweled braces.

“Nothing wise,” Cecile says. “I guess it’s a matter of public record, but the mysterious archive fire six years ago has made it very difficult to access my case file. And the Sherriff’s Offices keep very poor electronic records.”

RJ is no longer defensive, just slightly overawed. Cecile smiles.

“Are you ready to work?” she says, “When you finish your tea, go back to Reception for a list of intern duties. That will be the time to inform Reception of any special needs, extracurriculars, and religious observances you have. Leave nothing out. Reception just wants to help, but Reception is also hungry and does not tolerate absence.”

“Okay,” RJ says. Cecile sips her tea, and checks her phone. Carla hasn’t texted her, which means no immediate danger. Or maybe there is some danger, and she just forgot to text in her scientific fervor. Either way, it doesn’t seem urgent. So she texts Carla instead.

 _Heyyyy gorgeous. How’s science?_ , she texts, and adds a couple of hearts for good measure. There’s about twenty minutes before the show starts, and until then she’ll check her phone compulsively, instead of doing the smart thing and boning up on the script for her show. Carla usually doesn’t answer texts until half an hour after they’ve been sent, but that’s the kind of tardiness Cecile can set her watch to, if watches weren’t redundant.

“Hey, just getting my bat,” RJ says from the door. Ze looks a bit worse for wear, face and hands covered in black blood. “But Reception’s already written up my schedule. It looks like I might like this place.”

“That’s a promising attitude!” Cecile beams, “most cower under the couch or try to escape.”

“There’s no point in all that,” RJ says, gripping zir baseball bat close. “I’ll be back. Reception asked for better info about my sight issues.”

“All right. Just get back in time for the broadcast,” Cecile murmurs, turning back to her phone. There’s nothing in her news dispatches so far about the rolling meadow that Carla is investigating, and she prays that nothing will come up, unless it’s from Carla personally.

Carla’s first text of the evening comes in the middle of Cecile’s show. It is not in itself worrying.

_Sorry, who is this?_

Cecile grimaces. Carla should really get caller ID, or use the contacts app on her phone. For a scientist, she can really be tech-backward.

 _It’s Cecile. Don’t you have me in your phone? ):_ she texts back, and then gets back to a dispatch about the Annual May Day Sacrifice.

“Listeners, we have an opportunity to bring fame and renown to our little town,” she smiles, “Next week, during the Tenth Annual May Day Sacrifice, Corinna Jeffers will be attempting to set a world record for largest sweater knit out of internal organs! Jeffers has scheduled her attempt for May Day in order to receive donations of the fresh sweetmeats we would normally be weaving into our customary May Day crowns. But, a couple of lungs her way surely would not go awry. I have it from a reliable source that folks from the Guinness Book of World Records will be there, in the flesh. So… you know.”

She pauses, looks down at her phone.

_I don’t think I know a Cecile? Wrong number? I’m a little bit turned around to be honest._

That can’t be good. And, as though some Outer Force wants to justify the sudden drop in her stomach, Cecile gets a news dispatch.

“Thank you RJ… oh _no!_ ”

After a second, Cecile composes herself.

“Listeners, I have received some fearful news about the rolling meadow near the outskirts of town, which Carla and her team of scientists were until very recently investigating. It appears that the plants which populate that area contain some kind of air-transmitted memory suppressant, resulting in some very confused and aimless scientists. Um… at news time it looks like the Sheriff’s Secret Police are trying to corral the scientists while simultaneously attempting a fire strike of that lush, green meadow. It doesn’t seem to be going so well, as sudden amnesiacs, like most people, tend to be scared by Hazmat-suited police with flamethrowers.”

Her phone buzzes again, as she cuts to the weather.

_Yeah, I don’t know who you are but if you know the number for the police, I’ve been shoved into a black van with an Arkansas plate on the front and a New Mexico plate on the back. 911 redirects me to a video rental store, for no goddamn reason?_

Cecile’s heart is beating erratically, and her hands are ice-cold. Slowly she texts _That’s the police. Don’t worry, I’m coming_ , and tries to think sensibly, though her thoughts are quickly going to very dark places.

“RJ,” Cecile calls. The intern pokes zir head into the recording booth.

“Yeah,” ze says.

“I’ve got to go c-collect my girlfriend from the police station. You’re taking over the shhhhow,” Cecile says, and silently curses the loss of control that is so brilliantly showcased in her stutter. She drums her fingers against her arm to try and stop. “There are notes on the desk. Press this button to talk. Press this button to stop talking. Never _ever_ press this button. I think these buttons are all for show, but stay on the safe side and don’t try to find out.”

“Do you think I can do it?” RJ says, nonplussed. “Finish the show? I just started interning.”

“If you’re not the power-hungry type, you should be fine,” Cecile says. “But if I come back tomorrow and find that you’ve intoxicated yourself with the power I’ve bestowed unto you, it will be pistols at dawn.”

And with that threat, Cecile is out the door and running down to the police station.


	5. Lost Child Protocols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecile picks Carla up from the police station.

Carla is sitting in the reception room, looking more spooked than she’s looked in over a year. Someone, probably the very large policeman sitting next to her, has given her coffee.

“Um, I’m here for her,” Cecile says, pointing at Carla, who nearly drops her mug of hot coffee all over her lap. “No need for re-education.”

“Don’t sweat it, Miss,” the burly policeman says. “We opted for lost child protocols instead of the usual. Just want her to get home safe and sound.”

“I’m not a lost child,” Carla says, “what kind of place is this? Do you attempt to give _all_ lost children coffee and heavy pharmaceuticals?”

“Oh dear,” Cecile frets. “Thank you, officer. I think I’ll be okay from here.”

“Are you sure? I could give you two a ride home,” the policeman says, looking at Cecile from over his visor sunglasses.

“Uh, no,” Carla says, shaking her head for emphasis, “I think I’ve been kidnapped and driven around by policemen enough for one day. How about I get some answers instead? Where am I? Why is my hair so damn long? And who are you?”

“You didn’t take the complimentary pharmaceuticals, did you?” Cecile says with a bit of a smile. “Carla, I’m not trying to hurt you. Will you come with me? I’ll explain as best I can.”

Carla takes a long time to consider, eyes flicking from suspicion to confusion on and off again. Finally, she shrugs, and finishes her coffee.

“I think I like you better than the police station,” she says, and Cecile blushes to her roots. “Are you Cecile?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Cecile grins.

Carla considers her. This woman is adorable, a word she would not usually apply to someone with more ink than a Dostoevsky novel and a voice made of distilled sex. There is something tantalizingly familiar about her. Carla doesn’t know what’s going on, but for the moment she thinks she can swing with it.

Cecile’s fingers curl around Carla’s hand once they’re out of the police station. Carla looks down at their interlocked hands, a little bit shocked by the casual PDA.

“The policeman told me that I’ve experienced memory loss,” she says tentatively. “I don’t really believe it, but at the same time it seems to make the most sense.”

“That’s okay,” Cecile says, “Memory loss is a fairly common experience in Night Vale, but it’s generally not permanent.”

“Night Vale,” Carla says suddenly. “That’s where I am?”

Cecile smiles, and Carla doesn’t even mind that her handhold becomes a little bit tighter.

“You said that Night Vale is the most scientifically interesting town in America,” she says with a little bit of pride.

“In America? I must have been understating things,” Carla says, trying to contain her excitement. “Night Vale is easily the most scientifically interesting place in the world. They’ve studied entire _planets_ that aren’t as… wow, and I’m here! Damn, this is weird. Did you come to study Night Vale too?”

“No, I live here. I’m on the radio,” Cecile says, “and I think you should probably know before I take you back home, but we’re totally dating.”

Carla laughs before she realizes Cecile is dead serious. There’s no way. Cecile is way out of her league – she’s too confident and clearly not on the rebound -- and Carla has never really had unattainable girlfriends before. But the way Cecile holds her hand, the way she looks at Carla, it’s totally believable.

“You’re really pretty to be my girlfriend,” she finally says, feeling her face fire up. “Are you sure it's me you're with?”

“I'm positive,” Cecile says warmly, and stops. “This is us.”

They’ve stopped in front of a sweet little house with a sky blue front porch and a wreath of various plants on the door. The front light blinks on as they come closer, and when Cecile starts to fumble with her keys, Carla starts to get déjà vu.


	6. All Over Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carla doesn't know what's going on, but she's fairly okay with it.

“I have a couple of photos of us that might help jog your memory,” Cecile says, peeling off her cardigan and throwing it at a chair. Under the thin fabric of her mint-green shirt Carla can see a landscape of tattoos and scars on her back. “I kept an album in case I had a moment of memory loss or succumbed Fanny Bryce Approximation Syndrome, but I guess it might work for you too.”

The inside of the house is cozy to the point of being quaint, with quilts thrown over the couch and rugs and wood-carvings. Carla reckons this was Cecile’s house first, because she can only see creeping suggestions of herself, papers on the table, some of her texts in the bookshelf by the old-timey television, and her Johns Hopkins sweatshirt thrown over a chair. Cecile gets a photo album from the bookshelf, and sits down on the couch, pushing aside a couple of pillows with bright geometric designs on them.

“Come sit,” she says, patting the space beside her. Carla sits down, a little bit endeared by Cecile’s shy smile. Together they look at photobooth pictures and candid shots of them together doing coupley things, accompanied by Cecile’s vivid commentary. Carla pauses at a picture of Cecile covered in bandages and sleeping with her head on Carla’s lap, taken on this same couch.

“Who takes these pictures?” she asks.

“You don’t know about the Sheriff’s Secret Police!” Cecile hits her forehead in the universal expression of absentmindedness. “In Night Vale everything’s wired for sound and there are little cameras everywhere. For our safety.”

“Our safety,” Carla repeats dumbly, unsure of what else to say.

“I know constant surveillance seems backward, but it’s really not that intrusive,” Cecile shrugs. “It’s convenient, really. I’m constantly losing my keys, but I can just ask if anyone’s seen them and generally that saves a lot of time. Also, this photo of you sleeping on your work is adorable! Those secret police really have an eye for photography, I have to say.”

“Okay,” Carla says, a little bit more cautious. There is no way she’s going to say what’s on her mind now. Cecile seems to understand anyway, and blushes.

“They don’t have any interest in sexual liaisons after knowing the participants. I can see how that would give you pause,” she adds nervously.

“And we’ve…?” Carla trails off, gesturing vaguely.

“Oh _yes_ ,” Cecile says, and hastily continues when she sees Carla’s look. “But I don’t expect we’ll be carrying on in the same way until you get your memory back. That’s not right.”

Carla is struck by the earnest adoration in Cecile’s eyes, and she almost recognizes everything; it’s like remembering how an old song goes.

“This isn’t a joke, huh,” she says with an awkward laugh. It wouldn’t be the first prank she was the victim of, or the most elaborate one.

“I’d never joke about something like this,” Cecile says, and the shock in her eyes is maybe two thoughts removed from hurt.

_How about you stop hurting the crazy girl who says she’s your girlfriend_ , Carla berates herself, and smiles.

“You’re really something,” Carla says. “I hope I tell you every day.”

“Generally you’re more specific,” Cecile says with a near-salacious grin that hints at memories that now must only belong to her, and Carla is struck once more by how weird this whole thing is. What’s especially weird is how okay Carla is with this whole arrangement- living in Night Vale with one of its residents, who must be ten kinds of radioactive if she’s been here all her life, and is just covered in tats and _is that a tongue piercing?_

“Um,” she says. She can feel a blush on her neck and face, and curses her past self for finally successfully tricking someone really hot into thinking she was cool, and then losing her memory. “So, how did we get together? Did I bribe you? Am I holding your family hostage?”

“No, we skipped over those courting formalities and got right to going out,” Cecile says. Carla gives up trying to figure out if Cecile is joking or not. “You kissed me on our first date.”

“I kissed you?” Carla says. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“Well, in those days you were fairly stressed because you thought you’d die at any moment,” Cecile says, with a laugh that sounds totally forced. Carla wonders what that’s about, and realizes.

“I almost died, didn’t I?” she says quietly. Cecile nods, and her fingers grasp Carla’s hand. “How did that happen?”

Cecile sighs.

“You were hit by miniature projectile missiles and bombs while proving a hypothesis. You have a couple of scars, here and here.”

She traces the small craters on Carla’s back with an unfamiliar intimacy, and Carla remembers, as though in a dream, a miniature city in a bowling alley.

“Oh my God,” she mutters, “and you… you were on the radio.”

“I was,” Cecile says, regret plain in her eyes, “and I couldn’t…”

“I woke up and you were crying,” Carla says quietly, “you cut to an ad. And I called you and I think I stretched my stitches going to see you at the Arby’s. You held my hand so tightly.”

Because Cecile is above all things sincere, so beautiful in her sincerity. And she… she never remembers which key unlocks her front door, or where she puts her keys once she gets inside. And she likes to whittle and carve when she has free time and her favourite song is _What a Wonderful World_. Her voice can be perceived as colour and she’s the most unashamedly romantic person Carla’s ever met.

Everything’s coming back now- the grant, the endless existential crisis, late nights watching the sky and trying to understand, and the goddamn _bowling alley_ , and then Cecile. It’s like falling in love all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!
> 
> So, if my speed is about three chapters a week, making this the last one for this week. After this, there is going to be a flashback chapter, and then maybe I'll do a plot. OMG. Thank you for your comments so far. Makes me very happy to see them in my inbox!


	7. A Year And A Half Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carla's memories are sometimes quite sad.

**A Year and a Half Ago**

Aqua regia is a combination of hydrochloric and nitric acid, so called royal water because it can dissolve the noble elements. And four years ago, on their wedding day, Ruth gave Carla a solid-gold ring with their names engraved on the inside of the band. Now that ring is irrevocably destroyed, along with their marriage.

There’s still a light band on her finger where the wedding ring used to be. Carla looks at it with some distaste as she lights her cigarette and looks up at the stars. She has been doing a lot of that lately. Her brother’s mansion (Luis keeps on saying it isn’t a mansion, but _come on_ ) has a roof garden, and her niece’s high-powered telescope somewhat counters the air pollution even this far away from the city.

“Tía Carla?” Fina says from the door. “Sorry, am I interrupting?”

“No,” Carla says, forcing a smile on her face. Her niece is a good kid, and she doesn’t need to share in Carla’s post-divorce blues. “Aren’t you up a bit late for a school night?”

“It doesn’t count if I’m working on homework,” Fina says, holding our her notebook. “My chemistry teacher really sucks.”

“I see,” Carla says with a laugh, and preemptively puts on her reading glasses. “Well, you’re not the first with a bad teacher in high school. What part are you having trouble with?”

“Kind of… all of it,” Fina says, looking down. “I was doing okay and then he started talking about balancing equations?”

“Let’s get somewhere with better light.”

There’s a library in this house, but Fina prefers to work in her own room. Carla sits on the cushioned window seat with her and explains as best she can about two weeks’ worth of coursework, with minimum tangents and provisos. It’s basic stuff, but Fina is grateful for the help and explaining these concepts gives Carla something to think about that’s not her divorce or her current unemployment.

_“What’s the good of a PhD if you’re not going to use it?” Ruth yelled, “Why don’t you go to teacher’s college, or take that university job? Your brother’s already got tenure, for Chrissake.”_

_“Well my brother is eight years older than me and he didn’t have research to finish,” Carla snapped. “But if you’d prefer to be married to him, by all means go ahead! I’ll give you away at the fucking altar.”_

So much for keeping her mind off it. Carla thinks maybe she thinks too much.

“How are you now?” she asks Fina.

“I get everything much better. Thanks,” Fina says.

“I’ll be on the roof if you need any more help. Don’t stay up too late,” Carla says. “Your dad’s marking midterms, and I bet he’s already asleep.”

“He went to bed an hour ago,” Fina admits. “I guess I’m a night owl like you.”

“That’s no good,” Carla says, fumbling for another cigarette. “You need to sleep or you’ll get tired in class.”

“Let’s be real Tía Carla, I’m a teenager and I’ll be tired in class no matter what I do,” Fina shrugs. Carla can’t really argue with that, goes back up to the roof to watch the stars some more.

When it was clear Carla was in real trouble from the financial repercussions of the separation, Luis immediately offered for her to stay here. And while she is grateful for the reprieve from some stressors, it rankles.

“A scientist is self-reliant,” she mutters, to nobody in particular, “that is the first thing a scientist is.”

Carla sounds bitter, even to herself. She doesn’t like being bitter at all, but it’s difficult to contemplate the time she wasted with Ruth, who stopped loving her even before they got married. Now Carla’s too old to date, certainly too old for romance, and coming out of the shower this morning, she finally realized how much grey she has in her hair.

The tightness at her throat returns, and she bites her lip furiously. She’s done crying about this.

Carla doesn’t know it yet, but it’s the last sleepless night she’ll spend in that house. A lavender coloured and scented letter is on its way to inform her of an open position of study in one of the most scientifically diverse places in the USA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bleh, sorry for this clunky-ass flashback. When this story is finished, I'll be rearranging chapters so that everything flows together better.
> 
> It's important to me that Carla and Cecile aren't young/experiencing first love, so instead I've made it so Carla is somewhat older and disappointed in the realities of love in the world outside of Night Vale. Night Vale is a place where romance and love at first sight are common, and shouldn't just be for the young 'uns.
> 
> Once again, thanks for the comments! It's so cool to see what you guys think.


	8. Reclaiming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a sex scene.

“Carla, are you okay?” Cecile asks softly, her hand ghosting across Carla’s lap. Carla kisses her in response, relishing Cecile’s little sound of surprise.

“I remember you,” she whispers against Cecile’s lips. “How could I forget?”

“Oh masters of us all, _praise_ ,” Cecile says, relief sagging her shoulders, and Carla realizes she must have been masking her panic so Carla wouldn’t be uncomfortable. “I got there as soon as I c-could because ifIjustleftyou they’d have t-tried to fix you and…”

She breaks off, profoundly frustrated, and Carla hugs back, feeling guilty. She’s never heard Cecile stutter so badly, knows that it only comes out when she’s very distressed.

“We’re okay,” Carla says. “Cecile, we are okay.”

“I get so scared that I’ll lose you,” Cecile says. “People die all the time, and I am always mourning. But I don’t ever want to mourn you. That is one thing I will not do.”

“You won’t have to,” Carla says. It’s a hefty promise, but one she intends to keep. She rubs circles into Cecile’s back, until her girlfriend relaxes a bit. A knobbled scar stands out against the thin mint-green fabric of her blouse, and Carla fixates on it, knowing she has a couple of craters in _her_ back from the bowling alley.

“I wonder if you’ve remembered _everything_ ,” Cecile says, the sudden wickedness in her voice startling Carla.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if I took you to bed right now, I wonder if I could make you say my name like you did the first time we were together,” Cecile says, and the grin that she shoots at Carla is downright predatory.

“I… um,” Carla says, feeling a hot blush on her neck and face. “Wow.”

Anything she was going to say after that is cut off by Cecile’s kiss, full of intent. She melts into the kiss, tangling her hands in the younger woman’s hair. Cecile breaks away with a soft moan and starts unbuttoning Carla’s shirt, even as Carla shrugs off her lab coat.

“I want to plant a forest of kisses on your body,” Cecile breathes, her voice burgundy mist on Carla’s skin. “I love you, and you are going to _remember_ it.”

Carla is down to her pants and bra. She quickly unhooks the latter and lets Cecile take it off. Cecile makes a sound of admiration deep in her throat.

“Did you just purr?” Carla asks, smiling slowly. Cecile blushes, yelps a bit when Carla pulls her in by her collar for a kiss. The rest of her clothes come off very quickly afterward and Carla thinks, somewhat distantly, that they probably aren’t making it to the bed tonight.

Cecile’s long hair brushes against Carla’s skin while her lips kiss and nip down, a sensation Carla must have forgotten because she feels like she’s just remembering it as it happens. Cecile’s eyes flicker upward, and there is a smile in those eyes that fills Carla with equal parts apprehension and arousal.

And then Cecile’s hand, the one which isn’t occupied with Carla’s breasts, is between Carla’s thighs, gently pushing them apart, and hell, maybe Carla did forget some of the sex because Cecile’s mouth is electric, overwhelming. Cecile does something with her tongue, says something inaudible but deep and thrumming, and Carla cries out, but doesn’t come. _Of course she doesn’t._

“Not fair,” she says between shuddering breaths. “I don’t have powers.”

“We can do this the long way then,” Cecile says languorously, looking up with a crook of her eyebrow. Carla knows ‘the long way’ is fairly subjective, and her hand curls in Cecile’s hair, fingers scratching against the nape of her neck. Cecile gasps a little, and Carla can feel the ensuing smirk and _teeth_ against the inside of her thigh.

Cecile can tease, keep Carla spun out but still needing every touch, every sensation. She whispers things that have no meaning Carla can discern, but still have the desired effect. And then Cecile starts kissing Carla again in earnest, her hair lightly brushing against Carla’s thighs, held apart by those strong hands and…

“Oh my God, _Cecile_ ,” Carla cries, coming and her grip unconsciously tightens on Cecile’s hair. She lets go when she hears Cecile’s slightly pained sound, and shakily sits up on the abused couch. Her legs are jelly and her skin is oversensitive. Cecile looks up, looking profoundly self-satisfied.

“You have ruined me for other women, you know that,” Carla says.

“I take great satisfaction in thinking about it,” Cecile says, and kisses Carla on the lips, smiling when Carla reciprocates. “I’ve never been so happy than when I’ve been with you.”

"You know what side your bread is buttered on," Carla smiles, and begins to unbutton Cecile's diaphanous mint-green shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! The long promised sex is here. I had to get very drunk, but here is the sex. Next chapter is a flashback that pertains to Cecile, and her Miskatonic days!


	9. Miskatonic U

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecile's college days were interesting.

**12 Years Previous.**

Miskatonic University is vast, confusing, and damp. Cecile hates Massachusetts, hates that she has to wear a sweater even in the middle of September. Where Cecile comes from, sweater weather is a story they tell children to keep them in line. Snow, the threat of which hangs over her with every passing day, is a once in ten years sort of event at home. Her only salvation is the library; calm, climate-controlled, and instead of Night Vale’s brand of librarian, there are helpful old ladies and cute student volunteers.

There’s also a multitude of books that are banned in Night Vale, a dizzying combination of old friends and arcane texts that seem new to Cecile. She pores over these texts, borrows ten to bring to her leaky dorm. Though she rarely goes to class, Cecile gains a reputation on campus for being studious to the point of recklessness.

At Miskatonic bad things happen to the ones that go too far into the library, and especially the ones that dare spelunk to the Depths, where the forbidden tomes are. But the fact that she’s from _Night Vale_ spreads like wildfire, and it’s a bit understandable how she’s not intimidated by that building of dust. Soon others are giving her their library cards so she can brave the trace radiation, the asbestos, and the crippling existential dread instead of them.

Cecile likes girls a lot, and at Miskatonic there are lots of girls. But there’s one who she’s particularly enchanted by; Zanaia, who’s in Art History with her but skips the Tuesday 8:30 to sit under the Elder Oak Tree and partake in the knowledge there instead. Zanaia, with her bright red hair and black skin, and those amber eyes with petrified pupils. She has Gifts, and Cecile doesn’t, except for that one time she achieved the rank below High Priestess in Girl Scouts. Nonetheless, Cecile approaches her after their Thursday Art History class.

“Um, I get it if you’re busy, but would you be free to watch a movie with me tonight?” Cecile says, mostly to the ground. Zanaia isn’t cruel, or mocking, but at the same time she doesn’t try and spare Cecile’s feelings.

“Sorry, Cecile. I have a thing,” she says with a smile just verging on mockery. Her friends glance at her with expressions of pity and a little bit of amusement. Cecile blushes to her roots and her fingernails dig into her palms, but she nods.

“Oh,” she says, nervously smiling at the ground. “It’s just you’re kind of great.”

“Aw,” Zanaia says. The geometric tattoo that bands around her arm glows a disgruntled orange. “I’m sorry.”

And because Cecile is so awkward she sometimes feels like physically manifesting as something non-self-aware, she just runs off before Zanaia can say anything more. She dives deeper into the Library than she ever had before, forgoing the usual spelunking equipment and cursing her own big stupid mouth. Her feral curses echo up to the surface of the library, horrifying many of the studious that day.

She may have touched a book that should have been Untouchable. Honestly her memories of that journey are a little foggy.

Cecile emerges days later, covered in the gore of the mole people, and bearing theatre theory books which will be invaluable to Corwin Connor’s thesis about kabuki and its influence on verfremdungseffekt. It’s 8:00 on a Thursday, and she should be running to her Art History class. Zanaia won’t be there, and so it’s the only time she plans attending the class for the rest of the year. She mops up in the bathroom first, and then goes on her way.

She has to pass the Elder Oak Tree on the way to the lecture hall. Zanaia is there, staring into the secrets of the universe. Cecile nearly self-immolates, but instead of that unfortunate outcome, a bright red portal manifests in front of her lecture hall, to the shock and terror of many.

It _likes_ Cecile, and a gravitational pull localized only to the unfortunate Night Valian pulls her through to the next dimension.

The few who are courageous enough to remain in the portal’s proximity will later report that the portal then shrank to infinitesimal size (it did not disappear, like the university lore says) for five, maybe six seconds, before spitting Cecile out again like the pit of a cherry.

It is clear that Cecile has spent a longer time than mere seconds in the other other-realm, but she is neither wizened nor spiritually thinner, like most people who become dimensionally displaced. Though she’s clearly older (judging by her hair length, at least five years older- that night she will get _hammered_ ), that comes with some grim knowledge that gives her dignity and exudes a charisma that many choose to interpret as sexual, religious, or both.

Zanaia, however, sees the truth, and before Cecile’s chaotic powers can burgeon over and cause injury or death, she runs from the Elder Oak Tree and grabs Cecile’s hand. Energy leaps from Cecile’s scarred hand like an electrical current, but neutralizes when it comes in contact with Zanaia’s own power. Cecile, who has spoken naught a word since she returned from whence she came, gasps and curls her fingers in Zanaia’s hand.

“Earth?” she whispers. Her voice is hoarse, catches in that single utterance.

“Yes. Earth,” Zanaia says, with uncharacteristic gentleness. “You are changed, but Earth has barely moved since you left.”

“Then you are not all dead?” Cecile whispers. “They said everyone I knew would be dust if I returned.”

Zanaia touches Cecile’s face, tries to focus the other’s eyes on her.

“Everything remains as it was when you left,” she reassures. Her hand does not let go of Cecile’s. “Let’s go to class.”

“You don’t go on Thursdays,” Cecile mutters, pushing her newly long hair out of her face. It is heartbreaking she should remember this trifling detail after years of who knows what.

“Let’s get drunk tonight,” Zanaia says. “It might help you a bit. But right now, class. I hope you remember what we learned about Neo-Romanticism.”  
“Neo-Romanticism was years ago,” Cecile says, but they go to the lecture hall anyway, both of them still holding hands tightly.

Those who see Cecile return from the portal unscathed save for some time displacement are changed by the vision. The day that follows Cecile’s first bender, she wakes up with an awful hangover and a cult following. But that’s a story for another time. Miskatonic is a weird place.


	10. Abuela

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carla comes out with an uncomfortable truth, and gets a visit from someone she thought she'd never see again.

Carla doesn’t know why she’s feeling guilty and low until she looks at the calendar on her bedside table and realizes it would have been her fifth wedding anniversary with Ruth. Cecile is sprawled oddly on the bed, her head resting on Carla’s chest. She still doesn’t know about Carla’s marriage.

That’s not fair to her. Carla knows that, but every time she gets up the courage to tell Cecile, something different comes out of her mouth. She would attribute it to the town somehow, if it weren’t for the fact that she knows it’s her own cowardice.

“Morning,” Cecile says groggily.

Her eyes open, though the pupils are blown. The dreams she has can barely be called such. She sees many things in her sleep, and goes several places. Carla smiles and strokes Cecile’s hair while the other woman comes down a little.

“Good morning,” she says. “How have you been?”

Cecile smiles enigmatically, and kisses Carla on the lips.

“I’m home,” she says quietly. “And I’ve seen such beautiful things. Do you want waffles?”

The thought of food sticks in Carla’s throat this morning.

“My team’s probably wondering where I am. Did you know they have bets on how late I make it to work?” she says quietly. Cecile frowns.

“Is there something wrong?” she asks. Damn. Carla really needs to find out if Cecile’s psychic or if she can just read Carla from her face.

“Today’s the anniversary of something I’d rather forget,” she admits. Cecile twists a lock of her hair around her finger. “It’s not about you.”

“Then you don’t want to talk about it?” Cecile says quietly.

Carla sighs.

“I’ve been avoiding the subject with you for far too long,” she says. And Cecile definitely has her guard up now. “Look, I won’t keep you in suspense. I was married once.”

Cecile doesn’t say anything. Carla feels she has to continue.

“It was to another woman, someone I’d known since grade school. We’d been married four years, but we were exclusive for much longer than that. We had to wait to get married. It’s different out there,” Carla says, and she feels like her explanation isn’t very clear at all.

“Did you love her?” Cecile asks, and Carla wants to cry because she should have mentioned this ages ago, over a year ago to be exact, when Cecile casually asked if Carla was married.

“A long time ago, I did. Then I just fell into routine, stayed with her, and we got married because we could. And when it was very clear to us both that she was bored and I was indifferent, we got divorced.”

It hurts to admit, but it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. Cecile frowns.

“And you kept that from me all this time?” she says quietly. “I understand that it’s personal, and I don’t expect to know every little thing about you, but…”

“It’s not a little thing, Cecile,” Carla says. “Why can’t you be pissed off at me for once?”

“I _am pissed off_ ,” Cecile says, still calm but with a little bite in her voice. She gets out of bed, jittering around the room and getting dressed, “but I’d prefer not to yell. The Sheriff’s Secret Police have enough on their plate without unnecessary drama.”

“Unnecessary?”

Cecile nods, whipping open her dresser and going through her clothes for something to wear.

“The truth is that I’ve had a past too, and I haven’t told you about it in full either. And if you want me to do that, then you just have to ask. You know that. I’m open with where I’m from. But I don’t know that about you, Carla. You have your reasons for coming here, we all do. It goes without saying that there’s something you’re running from. But if you don’t tell me what it is, it’s going to catch up with you.”

Cecile has picked out an airy peasant top and paired it with a pink and yellow kilt. She throws them on with a little more force than necessary. Carla just watches.

“I’m going on a walk,” Cecile says. Her hand, clenched at her side, relaxes a little, and her gaze softens when she sees Carla’s look, but she still leaves.

“Shit,” Carla says quietly, curses her tendency to try and avoid conflict (she never used to curse anything before she came to Night Vale). She should text Cecile, call her, and say that she’s sorry. Or maybe she should just let Cecile vent, do whatever she does when she goes on long walks (hits things, hard enough to turn them into dust. Potholes in the roads, municipal authorities have their hands tied).

“You really fucked that one up, _bonita_ ,” says a voice Carla hasn’t heard in years. She looks up slowly, and her first instinct is to cover up.

“Abuela what are you doing…! Abuela, you’re dead,” she says in rushed Spanish. Her grandmother is looking really good, even for a ghost. She’s wearing that green dress with the golden embroidery that she loved so much when she was alive, and she doesn’t look a day over seventy. A sensation of crippling terror hugs Carla. “How long have you been here?”

“ _Goodness_ Carla,” Abuela says, and even though she probably has no blood capillaries, she colours a little. “I might be old, but I have better things to do than watch you and your pretty girl go at it.”

“But Abuela, you’re dead,” Carla repeats, a little helplessly. Abuela chuckles, and sits down on the bed with her, which is just _awkward_. “Seriously, shouldn’t you be in heaven with Abuelo?”

Abuela rolls her eyes.

“I get bored, dear. Heaven is not everything church said it would be,” she says confidentially. “And your Cecile’s mama wanted me to talk with you.”

“Oh,” Carla says quietly.

“Signora Palmer a sweet woman, but she’s a little deranged,” Abuela says, “and upset with you.”

“So is her daughter,” Carla says, looking down at her hands. “I really did fuck up.”

“Ah, she won’t stay angry,” Abuela says. This close, Carla can smell the scent she always wore, marigolds. “But she wants you to be more careful, understand? She says you’re supposed to save her daughter’s life.”

“What?”

Carla is a little bit alarmed by this piece of news. Cecile’s mother, from Cecile’s own admission, was frighteningly right about a lot of frightening things.

“Oh, it was very vague,” Abuela says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Honestly a very insensible lady. I think she just wants what’s best for the two of you. That’s what I want. Now you should go see Cecile. Get dressed and tell her that you love her.”

Carla blushes down to her neck. Abuela doesn’t smile.

“She’s a very sweet girl, and she’s good for you. I like her better than that other woman,” she says. “You deserve to be happy.”

Carla doesn’t believe it, but when her long-dead grandmother touches her hand in comfort, it is almost enough to convince her. She blinks, and finds that Abuela is gone. She sits in bed for a minute longer, then finally gets dressed.


	11. Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night Vale gets weird weather.

Once, Dana gave Cecile a stress ball, the high-grade kind for people of Cecile’s strength, and for the longest time, it was just right. It would bounce back from whatever Cecile put it through, still perfectly spherical and slightly warm to the touch.

And then Carla got attacked by the miniature civilization in the pin retrieval station of lane five, and Cecile crushed the stress ball into a flat disk in her ensuing, short-lived grief.

Now she just goes to the disused rock quarry out near Radon Canyon and punches rocks, when she has to. Lately she’d been all right. Now she’s not sure how all right she is. She's been here since the morning, watched the sun rise and somersault over the flat landscape. She hasn't even broken a sweat.

A sound startles her, and she turns around.

“Oh,” she says quietly. “Oh God.”

_The portal._ It floats in front of her, red as it was so many years ago. Cecile blanches, puts down the rock in her hand. She won’t go in the portal. Not this time. Eventually it will go away. It just has to.

Cecile starts walking away, quietly, as thought the portal has ears. When she looks behind her, however, she finds that the portal is the exact same distance as it was before. She turns around so she is facing it, and takes a couple of paces. The portal moves with her. Then it shutters a couple of times before it vanishes altogether.

Cecile frowns, but she’s not going to question the sudden reemergence and just as sudden disappearance of the portal. Better to forget about it altogether.

Her phone buzzes. She takes it out of her sporran.

“Hello?” she says. She should really get caller ID or something.

“Yo Prairie Home Companion, are you out near Radon Canyon?” asks RJ.

“Yeah,” Cecile says. “The disused rock quarry. Why?”

“You probably shouldn’t be,” RJ says, just as Cecile sees the ominous thunder clouds rolling in. “Apparently there’s a hurricane coming in from that way. City Council just released a warning.”

“Ah,” Cecile says, as the wind starts picking up. She starts walking fast. “Well, I’ll try to get out of the way. How was closing the show?”

“Let’s just I have _seen_ things,” RJ says, tone suddenly dark and disarming. “And I think my hair might be white now, under the dye.”

“Closing the show is a little bit more difficult than I made it out to be, I’ll give you that,” Cecile says. “And I didn’t prepare you that well for it.”

“Me and my trusty bat got out all right. Did you get your girlfriend back?” RJ says.

“Yeah,” Cecile says. She’s on the main road now, but the sky is now the colour of painter’s water and the wind is making it impossible for her to hear what’s being said on the phone. “Look RJ, hold down the fort. I’ll be there for the show.”

A familiar car drives up to Cecile, coming to a stop beside. Carla rolls down the window.

“Need a lift, gorgeous?” she asks with a sheepish smile.

“I’m still angry at you,” Cecile says, screwing up her face in an expression that is meant to be aloof but makes Carla laugh. “No matter how dashing you are, with your economic and sporty hybrid car and your perfect smile.”

“Cecile, the car is only minimally prepared for the hurricane that’s about to touch down,” Carla says. “I want to talk about this, all right? But I’d rather not do it where you could get swept up before I can finish.”

“The radio station is disaster proof,” Cecile says after a minute. “We can talk there before the show.”

“Whatever you want,” Carla says. Cecile runs around the car and slips into the passenger seat. Sand is getting kicked up at the same time that rain is coming down. It’s practically raining mud.

“How’d you know to find me here?” she asks.

“The policeman who watches your house told me you come here,” Carla says, adjusting her rearview mirror a little. “Damn, will you look at that sky. That is not typical.”

Cecile does find the magenta hue the sky has taken a little odd. But she is still trying to be angry at Carla, and just pouts at the window. The drive is fairly difficult, with Carla white-knuckling the wheel and swearing under her breath at the fact that she is _literally driving in a hurricane jesus fucking christ_ , but they get to the station before it goes into lockdown.

RJ is still there, is cleaning off zir baseball bat. Cecile comes in with Carla, hair windblown from the thirty seconds they spent running from the car to the station. The walls are covered in black fluid, and Reception is ominously quiet.

“What have you done?” Cecile asks, looking around.

“Yeah, I overreacted last night to the things I was seeing,” RJ says, having the sense to look embarrassed. “Am I fired?”

“… Not yet. You’d have to do something truly dreadful to get fired,” Cecile says. “And Reception will reconstitute sooner or later. No harm no foul. This is Carla, by the way. Carla, this is RJ, one of the more promising interns to pass through NVCR.”

“Hi RJ,” Carla says. RJ makes a noncommittal grunt, goes to the broom closet.

“I’ll clean Reception off of the walls,” ze says, “and start filing those entomological papers all over the second floor.”

“Thanks,” Cecile says, and turns to Carla. “You promised me a talk. Come with me to the break room."

The break room is actually more pleasant than Carla thought it would be, given that it's built on the bones of past interns and is painted a sickly green colour. Cecile starts boiling water for tea, and gestures at Carla to sit. Outside, the wind howls.

"Cecile, I am truly sorry," Carla says. "I've been meaning to tell you from the very beginning, but honestly, the reality of my marriage just went away the minute I came here, and then we started dating. I didn't mean to hurt you, though I know that's what I ended up doing and I'm sorry."

Cecile nods, and Carla doesn't know what that's supposed to mean.

"I want to make it up to you," she says quietly. "Any way you like. I was thinking flowers, but apparently floriography is one of the official languages of Night Vale and I figured I'd just end up accidentally insulting you."

"Floriography is a very difficult language," Cecile concedes, and pours hot water into a couple of cups with a sweet-smelling chai. "It's hard to stay angry at you, Carla. And I'm _not_ that angry, not truly. People forget all kinds of things when they come here."

There's a pregnant pause. Cecile gives Carla tea.

"I want to know everything about you, and I want you to know everything about me," Cecile finally says. "Even if it hurts. Secrets are for the fearful, and the ones that worship secrets."

"No more secrets," Carla promises.

Cecile smiles, sips her tea.

"I'd kiss you but the dead interns are watching. They are _always_ watching," she says, eyes widening a little. Carla can't help but laugh a bit at that, even if it's only to mask her nervousness. They're going to be all right.


	12. Recording Booth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carla finds herself in the recording booth of the radio station after studiously avoiding it for many months. The hurricane batters at the walls.

The hurricane batters at the walls of the radio station, but in the recording booth, at the centre of the building, Carla can barely hear the storm. Intern RJ, persistent and apparently indestructible, is painting sigils on the wall to prevent basement flooding, and Carla is watching Cecile broadcast.

Carla hasn’t really seen Cecile work before, and it is strangely hypnotizing. Though Carla has seen Cecile’s radio voice before, drifting like cigarette smoke out of her car radio now and again, she’s never seen it up close and personal. At presence, Carla perceives a vivid, heavy green that shimmers with blue and flashes of what looks like lightning. It’s enchanting.

“That hurricane is coming in very fast, listeners,” Cecile croons. She has on a reassuring smile that somehow transmits through to her voice. “I hope that you have all had the chance to vacate your homes and move to the shelters on higher ground, because the rain is just coming down in sheets. Intern RJ has told me that a good percentage of the rain is also blood. So if you had any rituals that required blood from the sky, now would be the time to put out a small jar or cup or whatever container you have on hand outside. Don’t overdo it, though. Stay inside with your loved ones.”

She throws a quick grin at Carla.

“I hope this isn’t _too_ off-topic listeners, but I find myself following my own advice for once. Carla is right here, in the recording booth, with me! Isn’t that just wonderful? Well I don’t think Carla’s actually been in here since the momentous day of her arrival. Is that right, Carla? She’s nodding. I never did find out what she was testing for.”

Carla eyes the microphone Cecile speaks into suspiciously. She still doesn’t trust it, and this whole booth gives her the jitters because it’s ostensibly radioactive enough to make them both burst into spontaneous flame, and yet is totally harmless. Cecile’s tattoos glow a faint blue in here, so maybe they’re meant to offset the radiation…?

“We are getting reports of psychedelic colours in the sky, listeners,” Cecile says with a frown, “and if we’re getting reports, that means some of you are still outside during the largest tropical storm that our desert community has received to date. I exhort you all to go where it is safe, where you think it is safe. Safe is not outside. I am certain now that it is rarely outside. Stay with your families and friends. Stay inside. And, on that note, I bring you the weather.”

She spins in her swivelly chair so she’s facing Carla. A relaxing guzheng piece starts playing.

“So that’s how I do my show,” she says cheerfully. “Nothing too surprising, but hopefully you aren’t bored.”

“Not at all,” Carla says quietly, pouring some tea out of a thermos and into Cecile’s mug for her. “Have I ever told you that I see colours in your voice?”

“No, you haven’t,” Cecile says. “Is it just my voice you see? Can you see it now? What colour is it?”

“Yes, and yes,” Carla says. “When you’re on the radio it’s like a green thunderstorm. Right now it’s orange-pinkish, like a Wednesday sunset.”

“And almost as loud!” Cecile says gleefully. “Carla, that is so _neat._ My voice has never manifested for anyone before!”

“Is there a precedent for that?” Carla asks.

“Oh, my mom used to tell me loads of stories about that sort of thing,” Cecile says. “It was always like, really romantic and stuff.”  
She’s about to say something else, but is interrupted by Intern RJ popping zir head in.

“Boss, you’re on in about ten,” ze says.

“Thanks, RJ,” Cecile says, slips on her headphones again.

“Listeners, the hurricane has finally passed, leaving our little town in a more ruinous state than it started. The City Council estimates property damage to be far beyond our current means, but those in the know say that our check from FEMA is coming in. Our check is in the mail. Hopefully, Desert Bluffs will receive no such check when the hurricane ravages their town. Desert Bluffs has it coming, and I’m sure that the Federal Emergency Management Agency will take that into account when allocating funds for disaster relief.”

“And listeners, look at this as a time to rebuild, as well as to shed all that was unnecessary to you. Our houses may be destroyed, our earthly possessions, but surely the gale force winds could not whisk away the love in your hearts, the memories in your minds, and the family members who huddled close to you in those dank and unsteady storm shelters. Green grass sprouts from our formerly barren and sandy ground. We should enjoy the sight, before it is taken from us by the sun that simultaneously curses and gifts our land. And so we too emerge from underground, blinking in the frail post-storm light, and watch the stars reemerge from behind residual clouds. Listeners, I believe in my heart that this is a good night. Good night, Night Vale, good night.”


	13. Salvage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecile's house didn't take the hurricane very well.

The hurricane has battered Cecile’s little house, but somehow it still stands, despite the broken windows and the ripped up roof. What’s really concerning is the forest spirits that have taken a liking to it; the wooden door is already sprouting with moss and flowers in their attempt to reclaim the home for nature. Carla holds Cecile’s hand tightly. 

“I’m so sorry, dear,” she says to Cecile, who smiles sadly.

“It’s just a house,” she says. “What have I lost? Just things. It will be refreshing, even. Like an unscheduled Dot Day. Also, forest spirits are endangered, so this is more of an honour than anything!”

“If you like, you can stay with me until it’s safe to live here again,” Carla offers. “My building came out pretty much untouched.”

 _And my lab_ she thinks, but refrains from saying anything like that in front of Cecile’s house.

“Oh, thank you,” Cecile says. “That means a lot to me.”

They stand there for a while, in that comfortable silence that they can share now.

“I guess I should salvage,” Cecile says after a long while.

“Is it safe?” Carla asks, frowning. The house _looks_ structurally sound, but that doesn’t mean anything in these circumstances. Houses built in the desert aren’t made to withstand hurricanes.

“I’ll be fine,” Cecile says, kissing the corner of Carla’s mouth. “I rented out some spelunking gear just in case things go fubar, remember?”

That was a memorable trip. Apparently, Dr. Teddy Williams at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex is really prepared for _anything_. Carla would have appreciated some spelunking gear during her last adventure there, but whatever works.

“Let me worry about you anyway,” she says fondly. “Someone has to.”

Cecile smiles, puts on a helmet with an overhead light and goggles. She gives Carla a walkie-talkie.

“I’ll keep you in the loop,” she promises with a half-assed salute and a grin, and then goes into her house. She passes a rotund forest spirit who sits on her porch while wearing one of her quilts as a cape. Carla sighs, sits on the hood of her car in wait. After a few minutes, Carla’s walkie-talkie crackles.

“Hi Carla. Just on the stairs for the basement right now,” Cecile says. Carla can hear heavy dripping “It is really flooded, and shining my light down there I think that the floor may have dropped. I can’t see the floor, which means my basement is about twenty feet deeper than I remember it being. Also, there are sea animals swimming around. I remember seeing a lot of them in a book when I was reading up on prehistoric Night Vale for an interest piece. So that’s something weird. Over.”

“That is weird,” Carla concedes, “Can you take pictures?”

There’s a long moment of silence, then the walkie-talkie crackles back on.

“Over?” Cecile offers hesitantly.

“Can you take pictures, over,” Carla repeats hurriedly.

“I thought you might ask,” Cecile says with a smile Carla can hear through the crackly speaker. “I’ve already updated my Instagram with these cute and cuddly primeval beasts. They’re all in the science tag, for when you look. Over.”

“Thanks love,” Carla says. “Over.”

“No problem,” Cecile says. “I’m getting out of the basement. The water level isn’t rising, but it’s a little unnerving and those cephalopods are looking at me funny. I don’t think they like having their pictures taken. I’ll get back to you when I’m on the ground floor. Over!”

The walkie-talkie crackles off for a few minutes, and then back on.

“I’m waving at you from the window over!” Cecile says cheerfully. Carla looks up, and sure enough, there’s Cecile, waggling her fingers in a borderline flirtatious manner.

“How’s it looking over there, over?”

“Well, it’s kind of waterlogged. Some of the books are okay, but a lot of them are ruined. And I think someone or a few someones have been through to loot the place,” Cecile says offhandedly. “But they didn’t take the quilts or the photo albums. And my mother’s samovar is too heavy for most people to carry off. Over.”

“Looting? You’ve literally only been gone from the house for your broadcast,” Carla says angrily. “The place isn’t even that wrecked.”

“Natural disasters have been known to trigger poor impulse control,” Cecile says with a shrug Carla can hear over the walkie-talkie. “Oooh, they didn’t even take your sweater that I love so much. I’ll check the kitchen and the bedroom for anything else, and then I’ll be right out with what I can save. Over.”

Carla waits for ten minutes more before Cecile comes out with her salvaged belongings strapped to her back. She dumps most of it unceremoniously in front of the car, the samovar clunking heavily to the ground. Then, without saying a word, she kisses Carla. She tastes of sweat and smells vaguely like the sea, a smell so nostalgic Carla hesitates before leaning in to the kiss and circling her arms around Cecile’s hips.

“I’m sorry about your house,” Carla says, an inch away from Cecile’s lips.

“It’s just a house. It’s been destroyed before, and far more thoroughly, but I’ve always rebuilt,” Cecile says, reaching a hand to tuck Carla’s hair behind her ear. “And until then, I have everything I need here.”

Carla doesn’t know why, but she still gets gooey every time Cecile is this earnest about her affection. Her smile is probably as wobbly as Charlie Brown’s, and she blushes like a schoolgirl.

“You have to stop before I regress into high school, you charmer,” she says. “Let’s get this into the trunk and go home.”

“Okay,” Cecile grins.


	14. PORTAL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecile moves in with Carla for about two seconds before shit gets real.

Carla leaves Cecile in the car because she needs to cover the mirrors in the house. There’s only a few anyway, and she takes her time pinning the canvas covers over the reflective surface. Satisfied, she comes back. Cecile is already unpacking. Carla moves to get the samovar, but Cecile stays her hand.

“You can’t carry that,” she says, “It is hideously heavy.”

“Oh I’m sure I’ll be…” Carla says, and frowns when she finds she can’t move the damn thing at all, “fine.”

It’s not a terribly big samovar, made of pewter and slightly discoloured at the spout and handles. It really shouldn’t be as heavy as it is. And yet even Cecile shows some difficulty picking it up and slinging it under her arm.

“What’s in that thing?” Carla asks.

“Nothing. It’s a prerequisite housewarming gift with the usual good luck spell on it. Good luck is very heavy, as you know,” Cecile says pleasantly, grabbing a couple of suitcases with her free hand. Carla runs ahead to get the door. Cecile sets all her belongings down heavily, and Carla has to wonder what Cecile’s threshold strength is.

“Thank you for letting me stay here,” Cecile says. She looks embarrassed, as though Carla hadn’t offered first. “I’ve been told I am a conscientious house guest.”

“Cecile, I’d been pretty much living at your place for the last couple weeks while they exorcised the lab,” Carla says, shutting the door. “I owe you one, and even if I didn’t, you are welcome here.”

Cecile hugs Carla, arms dipping around her waist. One of her braids is untwisting, and Carla runs her fingers through the separating plait.

And then Carla screams, in earnest. Because a large and angry-looking red portal has materialized in her lab and it is existentially terrifying. Cecile looks hurt for a split second before she catches on and looks behind her.

“I… oh Lords of the DIRT,” Cecile says, staring at the portal. “Not this again.”

“Then you are… acquainted with this portal?” Carla says, doing her best not to babble, as she does when she’s on the verge of madness, “Because I have to say Cecile, I don’t know this one, and there is some bad mojo here now and the living room’s probably ruined. Deep clean at least. Nope. Giant red portal not my area of expertise. Nope. NOPE.”

“You’re going to get more grey hairs if you start worrying about this too much, dear. It’s just a portal,” Cecile says with a half-roll of her eyes. “I really think you’re a bit too panicked. Ugh, don’t pull at _your hair_ , Carla.”

She pulls Carla’s hands into hers, and kisses them gently. This calms Carla down a little bit, though she’s still shaking.

“Any time now, it will take me into its dimension, and keep me there for a fraction of Earth time, all right. I tried ignoring it the last time it showed up, but now there’s a pull and I can’t stay,” Cecile says calmly, a bit too calmly. “And when I come back, I need you to hold my hand until my weaponized panic subsides. Carla.”

“You’re not going in there,” Carla manages to bite out. She realizes that Cecile is actually terrified. Her hands are trembling.

“I’m afraid there’s no choice,” Cecile says with a sad smile. “I’ll be back in a few seconds.”

“Wait,” Carla says. “I’ll come with you.”

Cecile’s eyes widen owlishly, surprised into sudden dumbness.

“It is awful pain,” she finally says. “I don’t want you to… no, not you.”

She’s on the verge of tears. Carla tightens her grasp on Cecile’s hand.

“It will be easier if we’re together,” Carla says, “I’m not going to let you suffer alone.”

Cecile shakes her head, but her hold on Carla’s hand doesn’t loosen.

“This is my decision, love,” Carla says, “I’m coming with you. It’ll only be for a little while.”

“I’ve already lost you once,” Cecile says, her breath catching in a sob. “I don’t know that you’re strong enough. I don’t know that I’m strong enough.”

“You never told me what happened there the last time, but I’m going to help you through it this time. You’re not going to be alone.”

Cecile is being tugged into the portal, still gripping Carla’s hands, her only lifeline. Carla’s heart starts racing in terror, but she holds firm.

“We’re going to be together,” she says, “We’re stronger together.”

And before she can make the decision final, the portal swallows them up. There is a sudden acceleration, and then they fall onto ground that is sponge-like, totally saturated. Carla shudders, sits up. Cecile has rolled onto all fours, vomiting convulsively. Carla nearly follows suit when she sees where they are.

There are freestanding spires, taller than what is physically possible, stabbing a violently red sky with orange clouds. The air is thick and sulfurous, and rivers, black as pitch, wind everywhere. They are in a riverbank, Carla notes numbly, and the water smells of old blood.


	15. Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carla and Cecile are strangers in a strange land.

They haven’t moved from the riverbank; their limbs are jelly from the alien world and the visceral stimuli. Holding hands and gibbering was all they could do for twenty minutes in this hellish landscape.

“I shouldn’t have let you come,” Cecile finally says. Her voice is taxed and ragged. Her hair is wild, unbound, and precisely one lock of it is turning snow white before Carla’s eyes. Carla wonders if she’s going greyer, and the temptation of laughing without end at the thought is huge. “Oh, this was a mistake.”

“No,” Carla says hoarsely, her hand reaching for Cecile’s manic twitching fingers. “No no no.”

“I’m so stupid. So _selfish_ ,” Cecile moans, “If I’d left you there you wouldn’t have had to… and now you will be here for _years_.”

“We’ll get back. How did you get back last time?” Carla asks, rubbing a circle on Cecile’s hand with her thumb. Cecile distractedly watches this before she registers the question.

“They sent me back,” she murmurs.

“Who are _they_?” Carla presses, though she’s hesitant now. Cecile blanches and makes a sound that isn’t describable except by its murky grey colour. Carla cups Cecile’s face with her shaking hands. “Cecile, I know you’re distressed, but I need information of some kind. I don’t know where we are or what’s going to happen, and you do. _So help me._ ”

“I am trying to remember,” Cecile says helplessly. Her eyes dart across Carla’s face, as though answers are located there. “I know they only took me when I went to a populated area. And after that I...”

She chokes a little bit, covers her mouth and wrenches away from Carla’s grip.

“I want to be home,” Cecile says presently, her voice newly raw, “Home with you.”

“After this, we will be,” Carla promises, though she knows she shouldn’t promise what is beyond her control. “We’re going to get back together. Okay?”

Cecile nods, resting her head against Carla’s shoulder.

This planet’s sun, black as pitch, hasn’t moved from its spot just above the horizon since they arrived. Carla frowns. This might be some kind of alternate dimension, but the sky makes absolutely no sense.

“We’ll need to go to the city,” she finally says, and shudders with Cecile. “They sent you back, didn’t they? I’m guessing they have the technology to control the portal.”

“The cost is too great,” Cecile says. “They were repulsed, frightened by me. Out of fear they did many awful things.”

She looks like she wants to be sick again, and stands up on her weak legs.

“I know how to survive in this land. We can survive away from them until we think of a way to get back,” she says, taking Carla’s hand and pulling her up with a bit more effort than usual. “Are you all right? Gravity is a bit more oppressive here than on Earth.”

Carla has already noticed. Her step is a bit heavier, and it’s difficult to keep her head up. Cecile doesn’t seem to have a problem with the gravity at all. Carla realizes with a kind of a dawning horror that this is because she’d spent long enough in this place the first time around to adapt to the stronger pull.

She heavily leans against Cecile while they walk away from the spires which loom ominously behind them. They find a place which Cecile says is a sort of forest, but which looks to Carla like a pit of thorns.

These thorns slice Cecile’s arms and hands while she clears them away and rips leaves from the branches to make a sort of bed on the still too-supple ground.

“You’re bleeding,” Carla says quietly. Cecile looks at her arms, a little bit nonplussed.

“I don’t feel it,” she points out blankly.

“That doesn’t matter,” Carla says, and tentatively comes into the little shelter Cecile has cleared. She wraps some of the leaves around the worse lacerations on Cecile’s arms, tying them off with strips from her lab coat.

“I’ll go scavenging for food later,” Cecile says. “I just… I need a moment.”

She seems distant, totally removed from the situation altogether, though her whole body trembles under Carla’s touch. Carla understands this lack of reaction, because after the initial moments of horror, she’s become numb too.


	16. Separation

The sun of the world that they’re on doesn’t set for ten hours, by Carla’s calculation. It’s hard to gauge time passing though, when all she does is stare at the sky through the thick brambles of their shelter. Cecile dozes in and out of sleep in the crook of Carla’s arm, and each time she wakes as if coming up for air when drowning. The fourth time this happens, she just sits up, miserable.

“No dreams,” she explains softly. “I didn’t dream once.”

That’s bad. That means that there’s some kind of psychic blocking interfering with Cecile’s abilities. That means someone knows that they’re here, and whatever nightmare creatures that inhabit this place are…

“No, stop that,” Cecile says, pulling Carla’s hands from her hair. “You’re going to go bald.”

“Does it matter?” Carla says. “I don’t know what happened to you when you came here, Cecile, but I’m not resilient like you! I can’t lift cars or break cinderblocks. I wasn’t built to survive. I’m just a scientist from Maryland.”

“No you’re not,” Cecile says sharply, and those coarse hands scarred only with defensive wounds hold Carla’s face with deceptive gentleness. “You’re a scientist from _Night Vale_ and that makes all the difference.”

“It doesn’t matter where I’m from,” Carla says, trying to ignore the blinding faith in Cecile’s eyes. “I’m still going to die here, because I’m not bulletproof.”

“I wasn’t either,” Cecile says. “They _made_ me that way.”

The shock of the revelation stuns them both. Cecile’s eyes flicker away from Carla’s shocked gaze.

“I was just a normal college student,” she continues. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to go to art history. And when I ended up here, and when they found me, they were so repulsed that they tried to improve me. Then when that didn’t work, they decided to make me into a bomb and send me back to destroy the planet.”

“Oh god,” Carla says.

“I’m not volatile anymore. I ended up back in ol’ Miskatonic, which has enough psychic engineers, tattoo artists, and mystics to defuse a whole army of weaponized unfortunates,” Cecile says with a weak smile. “I’m not going to let that happen to you. We’re going to find a way out.”

She meets Carla’s gaze, holds it.

“You won’t have to go through what I went through,” she murmurs. “I refuse to even entertain the possibility.”

“And what choice are we left with? You, getting hurt again? Getting _improved_ upon?” Carla says. “So you can sacrifice yourself for me? Cecile, no.”

“I want you to go home,” Cecile says after a long silence. “I want you to be all right.”

“I want us both to be all right,” Carla says. “Any escape that doesn’t end with us both back in Night Vale is not on the table.”

Cecile sighs, starts to say something, when she doubles over with a cry of pain.

“Cecile!” Carla cries. “Ceec, are you okay?”

Cecile grabs her hand a bit too hard. A blood vessel has burst in her left eye, and she’s ashen.

“They’re coming,” she says harshly. “Dig into the ground. They can’t smell our scent under the earth, and they have no eyes.”

“Cecile, I see what you’re going to do,” Carla says angrily. “And I _won’t_ leave you alone.”

“There isn’t time,” Cecile says, and passionately kisses Carla. “You need more time to think, to use that fabulous mind of yours. I could stay at liberty for years and years and never think of a way to get out of here. Now _dig_.”

Galvanized, Carla finally begins to obey. The spongy earth easily gives under her hands, and soon there is a good sized hole in the ground that she can fit in. Cecile grabs her hand again. Carla looks down and finds that a small inked compass that used to take up residence on the top of Cecile’s wrist is leaking onto her palm.

“What…?” Carla asks, watching the ink settle on her own skin with a kind of confused fascination.

“So you can find me, when you’re ready,” Cecile says with a sad smile. “I love you so much.”

“You can’t just say that and expect me to let you go,” Carla says. “I don’t know anything about this world, Cecile. How do you know I can even find a way out?”

“Of course you can,” Cecile says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Then she stops, and lets go of Carla’s hand. “I have to go now. I’m sorry.”

She gets up, and she walks away. Now alone, with only a small piece of Cecile with her, Carla wonders what to do next.


	17. The Rucklos

It’s a strangely unique feeling, being bolted onto a medical table that was not designed with her anatomy in mind.

“It’s been eons, Trespasser, and we can still remember your stench in particular,” says a Rucklos. Cecile holds her tongue. “You utterly failed to destroy your planet, I see. Our scientists say that you have primitive but effective seals all over your body to stop the pure potential we left within you. What a shame.”

Cecile’s mind is suddenly under assault. She ineffectually strains against the metal bands holding her at the wrists, ankles and waist while pain she’d spent so much time trying to forget comes back in full force.

“Oh, you found a mate!” the Rucklos says cheerfully. “I’m assuming that it is quite winsome for your species.”

Cecile shudders, shuts her eyes because the light is too bright.

“Did you know, that of all the trespassers who have come our way, you were the only one who survived the modifications?”

 _That was only because you were the first_ the voice continues in her head. _Because our methods didn’t get any kinder. Do you think you will survive this time?_

“Then kill me,” Cecile says. “Why bother with all the preamble?”

_Because you survived, you have a higher immunity to our experiments. We can try all new methods on you. And you might survive long enough to return to your earth and destroy it before you yourself are eradicated._

A long wire with a needle in the end coils around her wrist, inserting almost painlessly. Cecile knows that what is contained in the needle is to be the last consideration for her comfort in a while.

_So let’s begin._

And the pain that comes after, does it ever really stop?

-

Carla has the five most useful of the Night Vale Acknowledged Ten Senses, but can make very little sense of her surroundings. She is glad of the memories that Cecile had transmitted with the compass tattoo on her palm, so she at least knows what is edible without having to take any chances. But, she thinks, eating a fleshy fruit something like a banana and mango, this is getting her nowhere closer to helping Cecile.

Sharp pangs of terror grip her, and Carla doesn’t know if they are hers or if they are Cecile’s. Either way, she shudders, tries to think. When it comes to saving Night Vale, there’s usually a bit of reverse-engineering and counter logic involved. She can’t muster either when it comes to Cecile, though, not when Cecile is scared or in pain or…

“Panicking isn’t how we solve problems,” Carla mutters to herself, biting into that sickeningly sweet fruit with a bit more menace than she ought. Cecile trusted her to solve the puzzle of this impossible situation, and she’s going to do it.

Carla glances at the tattoo on her palm; the needle points toward the spires of the alien city, still visible even though they walked so far from it. Carla looks everywhere else. It doesn’t look like there are any answers held in this fairly inhospitable wilderness. She’ll have to go to that city sooner or later.


End file.
